Waking Nightmare (34 page)
“If you could hear yourself,” she said ruefully. “If that’s true . . .” she mimicked. She drew on her cigarette, blowing one perfect smoke ring. “Okay, so I made it up. But sitting in some drone’s office twice a week for fifty minutes isn’t doing me any good. I know what I need, and it isn’t dropping a grand a week looking at ink blots. I’m thinking of going back to school, did I tell you that?” Callie scanned the room before crossing one leg over the other, the act causing her skirt to ride up even higher. “Everyone needs a purpose, right? You have one, even though I’ve never pretended to understand it. I could, too. I was pretty good at nursing before I quit the program, remember?”
Abbie did. If she recalled correctly, nursing had been one of Callie’s longer stints in school and had come directly after her brief time as an airline stewardess and right before she’d been convinced she could make it on the drag race circuit. “I know you can do anything you put your mind to,” she said quietly. “But you’ll be more successful if you give yourself a real shot at it this time. Get focused first.”
Her sister had a gift for ignoring anything she didn’t want to hear, so Abbie wasn’t surprised when she switched topics. But the subject she brought up then shook Abbie to the core.
“Did you ever wonder what would have happened to us if our old man hadn’t taken that header down the steps?”
It wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss. Or to think about. Especially now, under Callie’s all too avid gaze. But she answered honestly, “Sometimes. Sometimes I do.” When she found herself alone and shaking in the dark, with the echoes of that voice all too real in her mind, she wondered that exact thing. And worse.
“Best thing that ever happened to us. Sometimes the end really does justify the means, don’t you think?”
Abbie stared at her sister, uncomprehendingly. Then as logic filtered through, a horrible thought occurred. “What do you mean?
What
end justifies
what
means?”
What
end justifies
what
means?”
Callie ground out the cigarette she’d taken only a few puffs of. “Filthy habit. I don’t even know why I started again. I only smoke when I’m drinking.”
But Abbie found it impossible to leave the subject alone. “Callie, what do you know about . . .” She’d never been able to bring herself to call him her father. “About his death?”
But her sister’s eyes were on the screen above the bar. “Hey, you’re on TV again.”
Abbie stared at Callie, wanting to press her, knowing the futility of it. Everything her sister said in her current state had to be taken with a grain of salt anyway. She knew that.
“You shouldn’t wear so much black,” Callie said critically, her eyes still glued to the screen. “It makes you look washed out.”
Abbie sent a quick glance to the TV, which was muted, but the newscast had already gone on to something else. They’d taken to showing just the clip of Dixon, Brown, Ryne, and her on the police headquarters steps, while the anchors rehashed what was known about the investigation. Dixon’s hope that the press conference would keep the media happy was unfounded, so far as she could see. It seemed to Abbie that it only provided fodder for a sensationalized daily summary, which provided no useful assistance at all.
“You’re famous,” Callie said, turning back to her with an odd little smile on her lips. “And so’s your cop. The cameras love him. Takes that edge of mean he has and makes him look dangerous.”
She could only shake her head, unable to keep up with the jumps in her sister’s concentration. But Callie had called it right enough; Ryne had an edge, and he was dangerous. On levels she had no intention of sharing with her sister.
“You know I’ve never cared for what you do,” Callie said suddenly. “All those cops and bodies.” She wrinkled her nose. “But you must be good at it. And that makes me proud. Sometimes I think you’re the only good thing I’ve ever done, Ab.”
Abbie’s eyes burned with tears that refused to form. She reached out to cover her sister’s hands with one of hers. And the sense of futility that filled her was as familiar as it was heartbreaking. “I know what I owe you. I’ve always known. I can be grateful for your bravery while still being miserable at what it cost you.”
Callie squeezed Abbie’s hand and for a moment there was a rare clarity in her eyes. A moment when Abbie felt a genuine closeness to her sister that had always been lacking.
Then Callie pulled away and reached for her beer, taking a long swallow. “I’ve always told you, worrying about me is a waste of your time. Didn’t you know? I’m indestructible.”
Callie widened one bleary eye to focus on the grimy clock face on the tavern wall. Abbie had run off hours ago. But that was when they were at the restaurant, she recalled. A couple hours and a few bars ago.
But no, Abbie was back. She swayed, clutched the edge of the bar, and peered at the flickering TV screen mounted next to the clock. That familiar footage was being played, of her sister and the cops, talking about the handful of nothing they had on the Nightmare Rapist.
“There she is, everyone, my little sister.” Callie held up her shot glass, toasted Abbie’s image. “Special consultant to Savannah’s finest. Guess that makes me a celebrity, too. She’d be nothing without me, know that?”
She downed the tequila, barely noticed the path it scorched down her throat, and rolled the shot glass down the bar to the bartender. “Next one should be free, Ty. Got a famous sister, you know.”
A male voice called from the pool table, “Hey, Callie, that really your sister? She don’t look like you.”
“She don’t got your tits,” another put in, and laughter sounded.
A bearded man pressed up against her. Slowly she swung her head to look at him. She didn’t remember his name, but she recalled being on top of him a few nights ago, in the front seat of his pickup, with his jeans pushed down around his boots. What he lacked in grooming he made up for with stamina. “I like sisters.” He grinned, showing a missing left bicuspid. “I mean, I like
doing
sisters. She into three-ways?”
doing
sisters. She into three-ways?”
“Fuck off.” Suddenly furious, she grabbed an empty pitcher off the bar, and swung at his head. He ducked, barely managing to avoid being clobbered with it.
He backed away. “What the hell’s wrong with you tonight? Crazy bitch.”
She smiled nastily, and watched anger seep from his expression, to be replaced with caution. “Think I’m crazy? You have no idea. The only three-way action you’ll be getting is you using both hands on your scrawny dick in the john.”
“Here’s your shot.” The bartender set the glass down in front of her. “Chandler,” he addressed the man behind her. “Shove off. I don’t want no trouble.”
Reaching for her purse, Callie withdrew her billfold. Strange, how that impulse to protect her baby sister was still sharp. Still instinctive.
Or maybe not so strange. She’d protected Abbie most of her life, hadn’t she? Sacrificed more, God, more than anyone could imagine, just to keep her safe.
“Put your money away. I got it.”
She threw a flirtatious look at the newcomer beside her, but her mind was still on her sister. She
was
proud of Abbie. She’d told her as much, hadn’t she? But it got hard sometimes to see her going about her life, like the past was some untidy mess she’d mopped up and forgotten. Like it didn’t still live inside her, a living breathing darkness that touched everything she did. Everything she was.
was
proud of Abbie. She’d told her as much, hadn’t she? But it got hard sometimes to see her going about her life, like the past was some untidy mess she’d mopped up and forgotten. Like it didn’t still live inside her, a living breathing darkness that touched everything she did. Everything she was.
“Forget your sister.” The stranger leaned both forearms on the bar, looked over at her. “Bet you’re more interesting than her anyway.”
Callie looked at him more carefully then, smiled slowly. She wasn’t a fan of long hair, but at least his was pulled back away from a face that would almost be considered pretty if it wasn’t for his eyes.
They were hard. A little cruel. And she knew she’d take him home tonight and try him on. She was having one of those nights where she felt a bit cruel herself.
Because Callie had sacrificed herself to the monster that had been their father, Abbie had escaped their childhood unscathed by the nightmares that haunted Callie’s every waking moment. If she didn’t love her so much, it would almost be enough to hate her sister for that fact alone.
It would almost be enough to wish for such a nightmare to befall Abbie.
Chapter 16
“What’ve you got, Tinkerbell, one of those fancy coffee drinks?” McElroy dropped heavily into a chair beside Abbie in the interview room, the steaming liquid in his Styrofoam cup splashing precariously. He eyed her disposable cup with lid.
“It’s a cappuccino.” She waited for the expected jibe, but it didn’t come. The man nodded, sipped from his coffee.
“Those aren’t bad. I used to have a machine. One of the things my wife took with her when she left.”
Ryne looked up and over the room, and it gradually quieted. Which was fine with Abbie, because she found herself more than a little creeped out by McElroy in an affable mood. Captain Brown opened the door just as he began speaking and slipped into a chair in the corner.
“Isaac came up with a possible lead on the syringe found in Juarez’s vehicle.” Ryne nodded at Holmes, who rose, straightening his dark ill-fitting suit. “The syringe is brand name
Reston
, which is one of the best-selling in the country. Client base is around five hundred thousand, including an expanding Internet market. But there are lot numbers, which will narrow the search. We finally got their client list this morning, after haggling forever over the court order.”
Reston
, which is one of the best-selling in the country. Client base is around five hundred thousand, including an expanding Internet market. But there are lot numbers, which will narrow the search. We finally got their client list this morning, after haggling forever over the court order.”
“We’ll be using a dozen uniforms to help with the grunt work on this,” Ryne said, “concentrating on clients in an area within a hundred-mile radius of Savannah, especially the mail drops. This could turn out to be a strong lead, and we’re going to wring it dry.” He turned his attention to the detective who had just sat down again. “Isaac, you and Wayne will concentrate on the mail drop clients. McElroy, you’ll coordinate the uniforms talking to the rest of the clients. Did any of the businesses experience a theft of syringes? Are they disappearing faster than usual? If anything sounds promising, follow up the phone calls with a visit.”
“Anything from the lab on the syringe contents yet?” Captain Brown asked.
Ryne shook his head. “But I hope to have at least a preliminary report soon.” His gaze shifted to Cantrell. “Why don’t you update everyone on the shoes found in Juarez’s apartment.”
“We reached a dead end.” The detective delivered the news with his usual impassive manner. Abbie couldn’t recall a time when she’d heard expression of any sort creep into his voice. Or for that matter, seen a change in his demeanor. That kind of control must come in handy when working with McElroy.
“The sneakers are mass produced and available in discount stores across the country. Local outlets have had them available for over a year. The only peculiar thing we found is that they’re a size larger than Juarez’s foot measures. Bigger than the shoes he was wearing when we picked him up.”
That news brought silence to the room for a moment. Then Holmes said, “He might have thought that would throw us off if he left prints with a larger shoe than he normally wears.”
Abbie remained quiet. It was entirely possible that the detective was right. It would take an informed offender to be aware that there were ways to measure depth and width of a footprint left at a crime scene that could determine such a thing.
It was equally possible that the shoes didn’t belong to Juarez at all.
Ryne was speaking. “We’ve got a solid handle on Juarez’s hangouts, so I’m putting on-duty officers in street clothes in each of his favorite bars between eight and two a.m. They’ll take some pictures of the patrons with camera phones and we’ll see whom he’s been associating with. Someone may pop for us.”
“Who do we have to know to pull that duty?” McElroy called out from his slouched position. “Because I’m willing to sacrifice my liver and my sleep. You can even skip the overtime pay.”
The others chuckled, and even Ryne smiled. “Sorry, Nick. The last thing I want to do is short you on beauty sleep. The officers need to fit in, so they’ll be drinking nonalcoholic beers. But I promise to give you first shot at the photos they take.”
He consulted his notebook before continuing. “I’ve got the LUDs back on Hornby’s phone. All the calls for the last two months have been accounted for. Preliminary results are in from the ME and they support suicide as cause of death. Her prints are the only ones on the drinking glass found next to the body.”
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